Jill stretched and yawned, awakened by the
click-clack of the door latch. A crumb from her afternoon snack hung
on a golden whisker and she unfurled her long, pink tongue. “Didn’t
wash my face very well,” she berated herself. “Can’t
stop taking care of myself because I’m getting old, or because
some of these younger ones can’t be bothered.”

She set about the business of washing her face
again; she was not interested in the two big humans who had entered
the big room with its perches and cubicles. They headed right for the
kitten cage, anyway. Almost every cycle some human, often a big and
several little ones, took a small one away. Almost never did one of
the older cats leave.

Jill was certain the kittens went Home. Home,
she remembered, had a soft brush and a warm human to cuddle against
and allow to stroke you if they were good and didn’t startle
you. Home had Outside and birds to chase; squirrels chattered at you
in the Outside at Home. She bathed the side of her tiger-striped neck
furiously for, try as she would, she could not remember what had
happened to Home.

Yes, the humans were stroking the noisy little
ones. She settled back into the interrupted nap, pretending not to
notice. She was dozing when a soft hand touched her neck.

“And what’s your name, Dear Girl?”
The smaller of the two visitors was standing beside the perch,
fingering the collar all the room cats wore.

“Have you made up your mind, Beatrice?” The
big human called from the kitten corner.

“Yes, I have, Fred. Let’s go tell
them.”

Jill was dozing again when the latch clicked.
The Human Who is Always Here entered with Beatrice and Fred, surely
to take one of the little black kittens away. Fred questioned his
wife again. “Are you sure, Beatrice?”

“Really sure, Fred. We’re getting on
in years, too.”

The big human nodded and stretched his mouth to
show his teeth, as the one who had stroked her came to her side.
“Jill,” she said. “Let’s go Home.”